“Lie to me,” she ordered.
For ten years she’d been counting her wrinkles, upwards of one hundred and sixteen now, way too many for any single face, but Vanity couldn’t stop counting her facial erosion. Now the scarecrow lips snickered just as they had for her great Grandmother,
Grandmother, and Mother. My DNA, she thought, a veritable blood line of cruelty.
As always, just touching her skin, Vanity could hear the silent litany of violations, domestic abuse, bullying, her dead sisters warnings.
“Vanity,” she sighed, “really?”
Too late. Train wreck.